New Ritual
by Well-Well
Summary: Monk doesn't realize that a decision made on a whim will become an early morning ritual for detective and assistant—not that either of them will mind it.


Hey all. This has been sitting around for a while and now that the semester is over, I finally had time to edit it a bit and throw it up here.

As a side note, I'm sorry about my other Monk story left untouched. I can't make any promises regarding its completion! I'm just a little too busy with life, but we'll see how the summer pans out.

Anyway, I hope you all enjoy!

…

New Ritual

He wasn't quite sure what to think at that point. He couldn't see a thing. The room was blackened with darkness and his eyes had yet to adjust. All he could hear were Natalie's shallow breaths by his ear. Her hand gripped his sleeve tightly; she was panicked. _Of course she is_, Monk had to think. He was too.

Something thumped somewhere in the house, and Natalie gave Adrian's sleeve a sharp yank. He stiffened, straining his ears to gain any sense of direction. "Mr. Monk." Natalie's voice was a mere suggestion of a whisper. "Julie." Monk's breath caught in his throat. Julie was in danger. He closed his eyes, wondering how he could have forgotten. "I'm going to go get her," Natalie whispered decidedly. "Stay here."

"Natalie, it's too dangerous!" Monk reached for her wrist as she released his sleeve. "This man is a murderer, not to mention he's been in your house before!" Monk struggled to keep his voice low as adrenaline rose.

"I can't leave her." She managed to shake her wrist free and crept slowly around her bed to the door.

Monk found himself wincing every time the floor beneath her creaked or her clothes rustled too loudly. And then she was gone, down the hallway to Julie's room. The detective began to see the outlines of different objects, the dresser to his right and the bed to his left, the door jutting into the room, halfway open and revealing the dark hallway beyond it.

Then he heard movement, something approaching. A small shape scampered into the room. He immediately recognized the hunched shape of Julie. She caught sight of Monk after a few seconds of looking and moved toward him, her face twisted in fear. Monk glanced about the room before turning around, unlocking the window and pulling it opening as wide as it would go. He waved Julie over.

"Use the terrace. Climb down, run to your next-door neighbors, and call Captain Stottlemeyer, okay? Quickly! Tell him that the murderer is _at_ your house."

Julie nodded silently and slipped through the opening in the window. Monk watched until her figure reached the ground and dashed around the side of the house. Then he turned back to watch the door. _Where is Natalie?_

He crouched by the bed and waited, his heart hammering in agony as each moment passed. Finally, a figure appeared in the doorway. He moved to stand, a smile spreading across his face, before he realized that this was the broad shape of a man, not the slender figure of Natalie. The murderer, a construction worker named Tom, pushed the door open all the way. Monk recognized the shape of a gun in his hand. Tom didn't seem to notice Adrian crouched behind the bed, but stepped into the room all the same.

Monk began to retreat lower, planning a method of attack, when he noticed that a pair of slippers a few feet away was arranged unevenly. One was upside down, and they were turned at different angles. He fought the urge but failed, reaching out to correct the problem. Turning a slipper over made more noise than he thought it would as its rubbery bottom scraped across the carpet. Tom leapt around the bed, gun aimed straight at Monk's head.

"Get up, Monk." He gestured upward with his gun, and Monk rose slowly, his hands in the air. "You think you're so smart, you think you got this whole thing figured out, huh?" He reached behind him and flicked a light switch, but nothing happened. "…I guess I shouldn't have cut the power."

"I know how you did it, Tom. I know how you killed your wife." Monk nodded in satisfaction. "It's over now."

"It ain't over, Monk." Tom shrugged in the darkness. "You solved the case? Big whoop. Doesn't matter now, does it?" He took careful aim and began tightening his finger. Monk closed his eyes as he heard the clicking of the trigger, wondering if this was it.

Suddenly, a figure jumped out from nowhere, landing on Tom's back. A shot fired, glass shattered; Monk heard the struggle and tried to move toward it, but the gunshot had disoriented him again. He heard Natalie's whimpers and grunts. Another shot rang out, and then there was silence.

Monk froze, unable to make himself move. _Which was it? Who got shot?_ Then came ragged breathing. Natalie's. Relief pulsed through his body, and he reached forward toward the sound of his assistant when someone grabbed his wrist and something cold and metal was pressed against his head.

"I told you Monk," Tom said, "It doesn't matter now. The only two people who can prove I'm guilty are about to—"

Monk couldn't wait any longer. He balled his free hand into a fist and rammed it into Tom's lower gut. Eyes bulging, or so it pleased Monk to imagine, Tom's grip on the gun loosened and Monk tore the it from the murderer's hands, turning it against its owner. He grimaced at the germs he imagined crawling on his fist, which was still balled.

"Natalie! Natalie, are you okay?"

When there was no answer, Adrian stepped over Tom who was writhing on the floor and crouched beside her. In the darkness, he could see her chest expanding and collapsing rapidly. "Natalie…"

She let out a shaky breath. "I think he got me, Mr. Monk."

"It's okay, the Captain's on his way."

"It hurts."

"I know." He scoured her body for the wound, but the dark room didn't help. "Where is it? Where were you shot?" He was desperate.

She grunted, holding up a hand. Monk took it up instinctively—and almost dropped it. It was sticky with blood. Struggling to hold on, Monk let Natalie guide his hand to her upper chest where he felt more of the warm fluid. "You… You're going to be okay," he reassured. "I'm sorry."

"Why?"

His hand was slick with her blood. He closed his eyes, ignoring the screaming of his brain and focusing on the feeling of her hand in his. Images of Trudy flashed through his mind. "For making us stop by your house. I should have known he would come back here again after what happened two days ago. It was my fault—if we had just gone to the Captain and forgotten about the hand wipes…"

"No, remember, I insisted we stop by… to grab them." Her pain was written in her voice.

"I should have said no, I should have predicted that he would come here." Monk groaned in frustration.

Natalie gave his hand a squeeze. Somehow, he could tell she was smiling. "He would have gotten to Julie."

The thought had never occurred to Adrian. If they hadn't returned home, Julie would be at the mercy of a murderer trying to cover his tracks. Monk was at a loss.

"I'm… so tired, Mr. Monk…"

"Natalie, no! Stay with me! Just hold on a little bit longer!" Monk looked up at the door, then out the window, but saw no flashing lights and heard no sirens. "_Where_ is the Captain?"

Suddenly, a light came on. Monk spun around to see the murderer standing by a lamp. Monk moved the gun up to take aim, but paused. "The power… the power was cut. How is that light working?"

"If this were real," Tom said, a frown spreading across his face, "she'd be a goner. And it'd be your fault."

Monk tried to understand as Tom reached for the lamp again. The lights went out.

Monk rushed forward, but forward became up and gravity held him down. After a moment of panic and dizziness, Monk found himself in his bed. He moaned, breathing heavily. The clock read 2:13 in the morning. "Ohh… it was my fault… it's always my fault…" He rolled over to the side of the bed, removing the phone from its cradle. But then he hesitated. He dropped the hand holding the phone into the sheets and raised his other hand to massage his temples.

When the clock read 2:14, an even number, he steeled himself and dialed the number. "I have to know," he whispered to no one, as if in defense of his actions.

On the fourth ring, she answered. "… Mmm… hello?"

"Natalie." He breathed a sigh, relief flooding his body from head to toe. She was alive.

"…Mr. Monk…?" She groaned. "… well who else would it be…" She shifted. "Mr. Monk, it's two in the morning… what is it?"

Monk didn't know where to start. "It was all my fault."

"…Huh?" Of course she wouldn't get it. Monk heard the telltale sounds of rustling sheets and then a light switching on. "What was your fault?"

"You mean other than everything?"

"Mr. Monk, either you make sense right now or I hang up."

"It didn't feel like a dream."

Natalie took a moment to respond. "…What?"

"It was my fault!" He was frustrated that she didn't understand, in spite of the small part of his brain that insisted she _couldn't_ understand. "I should have predicted he would return to your house, we should have gotten Julie and left, and instead…" He sighed. "I'm sorry."

There was a short pause before Natalie spoke. "…You're scaring me more than usual," she eventually muttered. "Was this a dream? A nightmare? What happened?"

Monk launched into an explanation about how Tom murdered his wife and planted all the evidence in the Teegers' home in order to frame a neighbor with a mental disorder but he got the address wrong and Monk had figured it out but had gotten his hand covered with dirt while digging through Tom's backyard. Then he took a breath and told her how she had run out of wipes and how she insisted on returning home to get some before going to the Captain and explaining things because she wanted to change her blouse, which had gotten dirty too. Then he took a another breath and explained how Tom was there waiting for them and how he shut off the power while she was searching for a new top to wear—and that's where Natalie cut him off.

"Whoa-whoa, wait, Mr. Monk, this was just a dream. What was so disturbing about it?"

Monk made a noise of frustration. "Well you didn't let me finish."

She sighed. "Am I getting paid for this?"

"Natalie!"

"…Okay, finish."

Monk proceeded to describe how Natalie had insisted on searching for Julie, leaving Monk alone and even after Julie had climbed down the terrace—at which point Natalie interrupted to remind Monk that she didn't have a terrace outside of her bedroom window—

"Will you let me _finish_?"

"Sorry, Mr. Monk."

—and Monk continued with Tom coming into the bedroom and trying to flick on the lights after discovering Monk trying to rearrange Natalie's slippers—

Natalie tried to swallow her snicker and failed miserably. "I will make _darn_ sure to arrange my slippers to your liking at all times, Mr. Monk, so that this won't happen again."

"Are you done?"

"Are _you_?"

—and then Monk told her how Tom was about to pull the trigger when Natalie jumped out from behind him and wrestled him to the floor and then someone pulled the trigger and when Monk heard Natalie breathing, he thought she was the one with the gun, but she wasn't. At that point, Monk stopped talking.

"… Is that it?" Natalie asked after a moment of silence.

"No, I was just seeing if you were still awake."

"Oh, believe me, Mr. Monk, I'm staying awake for this one." More sheets rustled. "So what happens?" she asked eagerly.

"He shot you," Monk stated dumbly.

"…Oh."

"And then he came after me but I hit him in the… oh god… oh _god_, Natalie, I hit him in his… OH GOD! The _germs_!"

"It was just a dream, you didn't actually hit the guy's cocoa puffs. Smooth move, though."

"UGH, I can _feel_ them crawling all over my hand!"

"Mr. Monk, focus. What happened next?"

Monk rubbed at his eyes, trying to erase the images burning his retinas. He shuttered. "Well… you were on the floor and your hand was bloody and you took my hand and showed me where the wound was…"

"You touched my hand with yours… no, no, even better, you touched my _bloody_ hand? Were you wearing gloves?"

"No, of course not, Natalie, where in this dream did I put on gloves."

"You're a brave, brave man, in your dreams, Mr. monk."

Monk could hear the smirk through the phone. "Very funny." He sighed, covering his eyes with a hand. "You were dying," he said simply. "I said it was my fault. You said it was your fault because you were the one who insisted on going back for wipes. I said that I should have predicted Tom coming back to your house because of the evidence he left there, and you said if we hadn't gone back, Julie would have been in danger. But I still should have been able to predict it!"

"Were you still holding it?"

Monk blinked, pulling out of his thoughts. "What?"

"…Were you still holding my hand?" she murmured.

"Yes." Monk didn't quite see the importance to the question.

A few moments passed before Natalie responded. "That's awful." She breathed deeply.

"I know, the blood on your hand was sticky, and—"

"Not that!"

"Oh… what, then?"

"Well, after Trudy… You were never able to hold her hand."

The connection hadn't occurred to Monk. He lost one, and he would have lost the other. The situations were so different, but their memories left the same hollow feeling inside his gut. Monk's eyes stared through the ceiling of his bedroom. "No, I guess not…" he said hoarsely, mostly to himself.

A silence ensued—not an awkward silence, but one that was content and understanding. Monk found himself focusing on the soft breaths he heard from the other side of the phone line. They were unchanging, even, and comforting, three of Monk's favorite things. No one spoke, and Monk didn't care to count the seconds.

"…Are you still awake…?" he whispered after a while, afraid she had fallen asleep and he would be speaking with no one.

"Yeah, I'm still here."

Monk nodded to himself. "That's right, you're still here. That's what's important."

The significance of his words was not lost on Natalie, and she marked the moment so she could think about it later. "Are you ready to go to sleep now, or should I make you a nice warm glass of milk and sing you a lullaby?" she said, and he could tell she was grinning.

"Actually, a glass of warm milk would nice. If you could get a cab and—"

"Ha-ha, very funny Mr. Monk." He heard her moving, and then he heard a click as she switched the light back off. "…Really, though. Are you going to be okay?"

"Yes," he said, if a little reluctantly.

"Well." She paused in thought. "You can always call me. I mean not always! But if you need to talk. Okay, Mr. Monk?"

Monk stared at the ceiling, slightly reassured. "Okay. I think that will work." He paused, and without anything better to say, he said, "Goodnight. And thank you."

"Goodnight, Mr. Monk. Sweet dreams."

Neither detective nor assistant hung up at first. Monk could still hear her soft breaths at the other end. But he reluctantly took the phone away from his ear and returned it to its cradle. She was there, and that's what mattered; he didn't need to keep her awake any longer.

The detective took a deep breath, settling into his sheets, knowing that comfort was a phone call away.

…

The following week, Monk was woken with a start by the phone. He grappled for the handset sleepily, wondering if it was the Captain with an important case. "Hello?"

"…Mr. Monk?" came Natalie's voice. "Sorry to wake you, but… well, I had a bad dream."

…


End file.
